


Sweet Music Playing in the Dark

by BananaChef



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Adoption, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxiety, Arguing, Birthday, Break Up, Dating, Deaf Character(s), Depression, Drunk Texting, F/M, Flirting, I'm A Trash Can Not A Trash Can't, Nicknames, Parenthood, Past Abuse, Post-Break Up, Psychological Trauma, Sign Language, Soft Brienne of Tarth, Title from a Hozier Song, Trauma, Verbal Abuse, and whatever my head spews is what gets written so..., bc they're both medieval period geeks, but that being said, idiots to lovers, look guys i'm going to try my best to contain my ideas and keep it snappy, oops lol, this was supposed to be a one shot but then it got too long, use of ~history~ to flirt, who knows - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:41:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27049615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BananaChef/pseuds/BananaChef
Summary: He was now thoroughly drunk, and plopped his Blue Knight biography on his coffee table, switching it for his phone.did you know that the blue knight’s name was brienne?Jaime typed, pressing send without any hesitation.you look like a brienne, wench. i hope that’s your name. it’svery prettymarvelous.He yawned, laying down on the couch.her eyes are described as being sapphire blue and that reminds me of your eyes. your eyes are aJaime furrowed his brows, trying to come up with the perfect word to describe the wench’s eyes. He already used sapphire, and pretty or beautiful weren’t enough.Synonyms of pretty,he searched, browsing the options until he came across the word prodigious.your eyes are a prodigious blue. i can’t stop thinking about you.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 21
Kudos: 65





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from “[Almost (Sweet Music)](https://www.google.com/search?gs_ssp=eJzj4tVP1zc0TMsqtEgpNLIwYPSSTszJzS8uUdAoLk9NLVHILS3OTNZUyMivykwtAgA1Ow6o&q=almost+\(sweet+music\)+hozier&rlz=1CATATK_enUS864&oq=almost+\(&aqs=chrome.2.69i57j0j46j0l3j46j69i61.5315j1j1&sourceid=chrome&ie=UTF-8)” by Hozier; for the purpose of the title, I modified the line, which is: “‘[Sweet Music](https://www.google.com/search?safe=strict&rlz=1CATATK_enUS864&sxsrf=ALeKk03hKnk2FndjjbpLO8LWgR6OQkXF7g:1602877471274&q=Sweet+Music+1935&stick=H4sIAAAAAAAAAONgecSYzy3w8sc9Yam0SWtOXmNM4OIKzsgvd80rySypFNLgYoOy5Lj4pLj0c_UN0i1yysssNRikeLiQ-EoaRjK7Lk07xyYmyAAEH9h9HZQ4OYGsBak56fZaDE37VhxiY-FgFGDgWcQqEFyemlqi4FtanJmsYGhpbAoAi8xnoYcAAAA&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwjZn6zy77nsAhXynuAKHVcSAZ8Q6RMwFXoECCYQAg&biw=1366&bih=768)’ playing ‘[In the Dark](https://www.google.com/search?q=in+the+dark&rlz=1CATATK_enUS864&oq=in+the+dark&aqs=chrome..69i57j46j0l3j69i61l3.4780j0j1&sourceid=chrome&ie=UTF-8)’”. The first thing to show up from searching “sweet music” is the 1935 film about a “crooning bandleader [...] woo[ing] a nightclub singer/dancer [...] but cannot stop arguing with her”, which is very JB if you ask me. The first thing to show up if you search “in the dark” is the 2019 TV show about a “blind 20-something [named] Murphy [...] drifting through life in a haze of drunkenness”, which is such a coincidence?? The fic stars and planets have aligned!
> 
> Keaira: I hope you like the final product!

Brienne had possibly been the most excited she’d ever been in her entire life when she landed a position at Alysanne’s School for the Deaf in King’s Landing. Ever since year one, when a student hard of hearing joined her class, she’d wanted to help. That student had been bullied and Brienne had stood up for them; they were friends for the rest of the year until they moved away the summer before year two. Brienne vaguely remembered crying over the arrangement, but now she couldn’t even recall their name. Still: they’d impacted her life immensely.

Since that first day, Brienne had dedicated most of her free time to learning sign language. And now, she was starting her first day as a teacher at one of the most prestigious schools for the deaf in Westeros tomorrow—today. If only her neighbor hadn’t started blasting Hozier at three in the morning.

Brienne rolled back into bed with a groan and covered her head with a pillow. It didn’t help. With a louder, angrier groan, she sat up, threw the blankets to the end of the bed, and marched through her apartment to the one across the hall.

“Would you keep it down?!” she shouted, knocking fiercely on the door. “It’s three in the morning! I’m trying to sleep!”

Nothing. Tired, frustrated, and angry, Brienne grasped the doorknob and twisted it. Surprisingly, it opened, revealing a man with a mane of tangled golden-blond hair pressing a hand to a boom box.

“Did you hear me!? I asked you to turn your music down!” The guy, wearing a rumpled white t-shirt and grey sweatpants with cuffs at the ankles that made Brienne blush at his simple beauty, made no response.

She walked over to him and touched his shoulder. _Maybe he’s deaf,_ Brienne reasoned. _A lot of my students liked to feel the music._ The man jumped, startled at her presence.

“What are you doing here?!” he asked, just barely loud enough that Brienne could hear over the music.

 _Could you turn down your music?_ she signed, trying to keep her anger at bay. _It’s three in the morning and I’m trying to sleep!_

The man stared at her hands with an odd, vulnerable look in his eyes. Brienne’s head was hurting from the music, but just as she reached over to turn it off herself, her neighbor seemed to come back to himself and do it for her.

 _Thank you,_ she signed, ready to shuffle back to her apartment and sleep for as long as possible.

“If you wanted peace and quiet you should’ve moved somewhere else,” he said to her back as she walked out the door. _I can’t afford anything better, dipshit._

It was a good apartment besides. She’d wondered why the landlady didn’t charge more, but now she knew. Her neighbor was probably a trust fund baby, wasting away after an incident when he was younger. Brienne had met some people like that before; they’d come in for sign language classes and think they were better than everyone else.

Sometimes she was able to get through to them and convince them to see a therapist. Their rash actions and asshole veneer were usually cover-ups for trauma. But Brienne’s neighbor...he was just—just so frustrating! The arrogance in his voice told her that she’d never be able to get through to him.

 _But he looked so..._ Brienne lacked the words to fully describe how he’d looked when she signed to him; sad, vulnerable, and surprised came to mind, by _why_ had he reacted like that?

She climbed into bed and snuggled into her spot, still slightly warm. _It doesn’t matter. I’ll never find out._

* * *

Jaime dragged his hand through his hair, snarling a bit when his fingers snagged a tangle. He watched as his new neighbor slammed her door shut, frustration emanating from her long, strong body. She had the bluest eyes he’d ever seen, too; the minimal lighting he had on didn’t do justice to them.

No one had ever truly signed with him before; Tyrion had signed some letters at him once, but they mostly stuck to texting each other. Jaime had the fleeting impulse to turn on his music again but stopped himself. _I should sleep._ And he would’ve, except for his nightmares of the Incident.

Jaime shook his thoughts off. The Incident happened fourteen years ago; it was done and over with—no use dwelling on it. Aerys was imprisoned for the rest of his life, and could do no more harm. And yet, he found himself shoving a piece of gum into his mouth and walking onto the balcony instead of to his bedroom. He breathed in the fresh air, looking up at the moon and the stars.

 _How can a night like this look down on someone like me?_ Jaime thought. _Probably shining on...shit. We didn’t get each other’s names._ He stepped back inside the apartment and managed to find a piece of paper and a pen. He scribbled his phone number on it, along with his name—first and last—and a little note:

 **i’ll find some other early morning time to blast hozier, wench** **  
** **xo jaime lannister**

He smirked; though he’d never tell anyone, he enjoyed a good medieval book in his spare time—which was _all_ of his time. Jaime slipped the paper under the wench’s door and settled into his chair on the balcony to wait for the sun to rise.

Eventually, it did, as it did every day after that, mired in red, orange, and yellow light. Sometimes Jaime would take a picture with his phone, but then falter when he had no one to send it to. It was fine. He didn’t need anyone to send them to.

If the wench saw his note, she didn’t act like it. She woke up early, ate breakfast (he could smell her cooking in the early morning), presumably showered (which Jaime pointedly didn’t think about; not once in all those weeks did he think about the wench shedding her clothes and stepping into a steamy shower), exercised (he’d seen her leave in athletic gear once when he was coming back from the Seven-in-Heaven store around six), and went to work (he saw her through the peephole in his door once; which, he reasoned, was just a coincidence; there was _no_ way he could have known she would leave during the time frame he was looking).

Her routine didn’t change once in the four weeks since she’d moved in. Even the weekends had essentially the same routine: she woke up, presumably showered (no illicit thoughts from Jaime!), exercised, but stayed home. Until one Saturday, the first day of the new month. She didn’t exercise, and that alone told Jaime something was going on.

* * *

Brienne was nervous. Not nervous as in _first day in a new city_ nervous, or anything. Not _nervous about a bad thing happening during something good_ nervous, but more of a _nervous about something worse happening during something bad_ nervous. She’d contemplated breaking up with her boyfriend over text, while he was miles away in the Stormlands, but had decided that she was not so crude that she would avoid dealing with a problem like this head-on.

So, Brienne invited him over, saying that they had a lot to catch up on. And they did. A lot had changed in the past month; she no longer had to be with the man that had verbally abused her since she was sixteen because her father wanted someone to “take care of her” when he was gone. She didn’t have to suffer through his insults and belittlement anymore. Brienne was an independent woman with a stable career who could identify when she was being used as someone’s punching bag.

She checked her phone again, pacing in front of the door. _I’m here,_ his text read. _Oh, gods. He’s here._ There, in her space, in the place she’d made her own in the past few weeks. And _in_ those weeks, she’d felt more like herself than she ever had. How many times during middle school and high school and beyond had Brienne yearned for the simplicity of her childhood? For the friend that sent her onto the path she’d chosen?

Brienne shoved her phone into the pockets of her jeans and opened the door. “Hi, Ron.” _Fuck, fuck, fuck._

“Thought you’d be living somewhere nicer,” he said in response. They stood there, Brienne on one side of the door with Ronnet on the other. “Can I come in?” _At least he has_ some _manners..._

Brienne stepped aside and tucked her shoulder-length hair behind her ear. “Um, yeah, of course.” _Oh gods._

“So, uh, it’s a...quaint place you’ve got here.” _Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods—_ “You sure this is what you want?” _Yes, I’m sure, you fuckwad._ “Really, this isn’t a good place to live, Brienne. It’s...it’s—”

“—what I want, Ron. This is what I want. I’m happy working at Alysanne’s, and I’m happy living here.” She took a steadying breath. “I’ve never been this happy before.” It was a risk— _saying_ that was a risk. And she took it. “I was never this happy with...with you. I was never _happy_ with you.”

Ron’s face went from only slight interest to complete anger as Brienne spoke, and that terrified her more than she wanted to admit to herself. _I have to be strong._

“Excuse me!?” He took a menacing step forward, like he always did when he was angry with her.

“I’m breaking up with you, Ron. I didn’t want to do this over text, so I invited you over...” Brienne swallowed as both of them turned red in the face.

“After all I’ve done for you, you’re leaving? New city and suddenly you decide that you don’t want me? Your father—”

“—is dead, Ron. I dated you for _him!_ He wanted me to have someone that would take care of me when he passed away. But I don’t _need_ you. I don’t want to see you every day when I wake up in the morning.”

Brienne quickly shut her mouth and looked away. It had felt good to let that out but it was a dangerous move. Ron wasn’t known for being level-headed.

“You _bitch!_ I came here to propose to you! Your father made me swear to take care of you and make sure you were alright—”

“Oh, yeah, fat lot of good _you_ did! I felt more alone living with you than I did when I moved here! At least here I feel fucking safe from—from your _abuse_!” Blue eyes wide, Brienne knew she was digging herself into a hole.

Ron was calm when he spoke, but his anger was visibly simmering just underneath the service. “I got you this rose,” he started, jerking it out of his pocket. A petal fell to the floor, fluttering to Brienne’s feet. “And I brought your mother’s ring.” He took the blue box out of another pocket, brandishing both objects for her to see.

She started choking up, tears threatening to spill. “The ring—how did you—”

“Your father.” He grinned, almost evil-looking now—almost predatory. “I’m the best thing you ever got— _will_ ever get. I was doing you a kindness all those years; no one else is gonna put up with you and all of your childish dreams of romance. There’s no knight in shining armor. There’s only me.” Ron threw both the rose and the container to the floor, and Brienne stepped back as the ring went sliding across the floor and out of view from the now-open container. “And now you’ve got nothing. If it weren’t for your family’s estate, I never would’ve put up with you in the first place—and no one else would have either.”

With that, Ronnet stormed out of Brienne’s apartment, slamming the door closed so hard she was afraid it would fall off its hinges. Eyesight blurred with tears, Brienne scrambled to her knees to find her mother’s engagement ring, locating it in the corner of the hallway amongst the dust that had accumulated there.

She felt drained, and ashamed of how weak she felt after breaking up with Ron, something she’d wanted to do for years. In the beginning, he’d been nice—took her out on dates around Storm’s End while she was getting her degree, and even indulged her love of medieval history once, taking her to the castle the city was named for. Brienne had paid for the tour and at least half the dates because Ron tended to “forget his wallet,” but Brienne had been able to overlook that at the start.

But then her father died, and he slowly stopped doing those things. He spent more time going out with his friends and left all the chores for Brienne to do. He’d degrade her a lot when she “messed up” something or “forgot to make dinner” because she had a class to teach.

They’d never officially moved in together, but she’d brought some stuff to his apartment in Griffin’s Roost once, and suddenly it was years later with Ron expecting her to be his submissive housewife. One day, almost without warning, she took what little she’d brought to Ron’s apartment out of it, packed up the rest of the items she’d need for a new life from the family house at Evenfall, and moved to King’s Landing.

Brienne had _tried_ to tell him of her job offer, but he was too busy with his job, which he rambled on about constantly as if it made him king of the world. For all his talk, Brienne hadn’t heard a single distinguishing fact that allowed her to pinpoint what exactly he did. (Not to mention that she’d learned to keep her mouth shut about her job at one of the schools as an interpreter and about her interest in medieval history, but _he_ , of course, was allowed to speak as much as he wanted.)

 _If I were prettier, this never would have happened. If I were beautiful, people like Ron would be below me, and people like Jaime would be clamoring for my hand. Well—not Jaime, specifically._ She suddenly realized that her and Ron’s stomping might have reached him, and took out her phone, drying her tears. **sorry for the stomping** , she typed, **just broke up with my bf**.

 _Is that too forward?_ she wondered. _Who cares. I just broke up with Ron! Be happy about that!_ But Brienne couldn’t. Of all the things to be most upset about, it was the fact that Ron hadn’t remembered her nameday was tomorrow. She hadn’t wanted it to happen like this, but now that the breakup was done, she wouldn’t have it looking over her head, at least.

“Yay,” she whispered half-heartedly, holding her mother’s ring to her chest. Hopefully, tomorrow would be her best nameday yet, though Brienne severely doubted that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her face wasn’t pretty, that was true, but the depth of her eyes entranced Jaime, and her kindness wiped away any perceived flaws in her appearance. Her nose looked like it had been broken at least twice, and the thousands of freckles decorating her pale skin spoke of years in the sun. Brienne’s body was one that spoke to a life of adventure—how did she break her nose the first time, let alone the second time? Jaime wanted to know.
> 
> He wanted to be around her enough to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i randomly finished writing enough to section off this chapter, so here's chapter 2!!
> 
> ilysm keaira <3

**sorry for the stomping** , the wench’s text read. Jaime had even gone so far as to title her contact “the wench” when he figured out who it was from. **just broke up with my bf**. _Which means she’s single now._

 **it’s all good**. _No._ **it’s fine, i get it**. _Ehh..._ **glad you got away from him**. _Well, now it sounds like I actually know about this mysterious ex-boyfriend._

Jaime decided not to say anything. It was fine. He didn’t need to respond to the wench’s text anyway. He sat in silence on his couch for an admirable amount of time before opening up the wench’s texts again.

**good for you!**

“Oh, gods,” Jaime grumbled, setting his phone in his lap before rubbing his face with his hands. _What am I turning into?_

He spent the rest of the day meandering about his apartment and reading the newest book added to his collection: _The Blue Knight: A Biography of the First Female Knight in Westeros_. It was a good read so far; an accurate deep-dive into one of the most iconic women of history. Eventually, tired of the monotony of the past several weeks, Jaime decided to do something out of the ordinary as well. He showered, dressed himself, brushed out his hair as much as he could before giving up and putting it in a bun, and left his apartment. He paused just outside his door, wondering if he should check on the wench. _No, I don’t know her. It would be weird, and probably invasive._

Jaime sighed and made his way down the stairs to the small main area of the apartment building, if it could be called that, and hopped in his car parked just outside. Five minutes later, he was inside his usual Seven-in-Heaven store, picking out bottles of liquor. He eventually settled on three bottles of wine to last him a while, checking them out. This store was his favorite since all the employees knew him after so long, which meant that he never had to awkwardly gesture to say he was deaf. They had slips of paper by the register just so they could write down the price, though he didn’t really care about the cost so much as tipping generously.

Jaime showed his ID, paid, and headed back to his apartment. By then, it was getting late, so he cracked open one of the bottles as he was kicking off his last shoe. Not bothering with a glass, he drank straight from the bottle and unlocked his phone, sitting on his couch. He had half a mind to video call Tyrion, but squashed it. Communicating with his brother using anything other than texts was a pain in the ass and not worth it. 

Normally, Jaime would curl up with a book or watch a new series or movie, but tonight, he intended to forget about all the things wrong with his existence. An hour later, he was thoroughly drunk, and plopped his Blue Knight biography on the coffee table, switching it for his phone.

 **did you know that the blue knight’s name was brienne?** Jaime typed, pressing send without any hesitation. **you look like a brienne, wench. i hope that’s your name. it’s** ~~ **very pretty**~~ **marvelous.** He yawned, laying down on the couch. **her eyes are described as being sapphire blue and that reminds me of your eyes. your eyes are a**

Jaime furrowed his brows, trying to come up with the perfect word to describe the wench’s eyes. He already used sapphire, and pretty or beautiful weren’t enough. _Synonyms of pretty_ _,_ he searched, browsing the options until he came across the word prodigious.

**your eyes are a prodigious blue. i can’t stop thinking about you.**

And that was true. He thought about the wench every day, without fail. She was a new constant in his life—one of the valuable things gluing him together. (He hardly remembered to shower in his dismal existence before her, but now he found that it was much easier to maintain a schedule.) Jaime fell asleep to thoughts of the wench in the Blue Knight’s iconic armor, which was situated in Winterfell’s Long Night museum. (He’d visited once—before the...Incident.)

* * *

Brienne was riddled with nerves as she followed her morning routine. She had shaky fingers when she ate breakfast, had butterflies in her stomach when she showered (during which she _definitely_ kept her mind blank), and hoped to work all of those nerves out when she went for her morning run. Unfortunately, the texts were still there, sitting in the messages app on her phone. The notification was gone, but her dread and curiosity weren’t.

Steeling herself, Brienne walked across the hall and opened the door to Jaime’s apartment. _Does he not bother to lock the door?_ Sprawled half on/half off the couch as he was, a bottle of wine on the coffee table, he looked half a sleeping god, half a pre-rot corpse. _Beautiful._ Brienne banished the thought. _He was clearly drunk and didn’t mean what he said._

She stood just past the threshold of Jaime’s apartment for a few seconds, teeth pulling at her bottom lip, before turning around and leaving. Brienne returned carrying several things in her arms, all threatening to topple over: a waffle iron, pancake batter mix, and—in a bag—utensils, butter, and syrup. _A little bit of kindness goes a long way, mother always said._

Not that Brienne truly knew that her mother said that. Her father had told her of the proverb a lot growing up in an effort to give Brienne _something_ of her mother’s, aside from the pictures he had. Pictures and proverbs were one thing, but _knowing_ her mother was a privilege Brienne never had.

She shook herself out of her thoughts, carefully setting all of her belongings down on Jaime’s kitchen table. Whenever Brienne had had an especially bad day at school (most of them were bad, but some of them were worse, unfortunately), Selwyn would get out his waffle supplies and make them for dinner, layering bacon in some of the waffles. Brienne held to that tradition all through her life, even learning the recipe when she was older and eventually making the waffles for her and her father when he grew too weak to do it with her.

 _Stop being so sentimental. It’s not the time._ Brienne took a steadying breath and began with the batter, her body following muscle memory from years of following Selwyn’s recipe. Every once in a while, Jaime would let out a loud snore, and the domesticity of what was happening would make Brienne’s heart ache. Eventually, she poured the batter into the waffle maker, sometimes with bacon, sometimes without. When she was sliding plates of waffles onto the kitchen table, Jaime finally woke up.

There was a lot of snuffling, a large yawn, and then a prolonged staredown. “Wench?” he questioned, standing next to the couch, having stood up and walked around the arm.

“Excuse—” but the ‘me’ died on Brienne’s tongue, and she signed the phrase at Jaime instead. _My name’s Brienne._ His eyes went as round as saucers, and her heart melted a bit. _I was named for the Blue Night. And I made waffles._ She gestured to the table, and he seemed to be at a loss. _Also, you forgot to lock your door. Sorry if this whole thing is invasive._

 _No one’s ever cooked breakfast for me like this,_ Jaime signed slowly, eyes bright, _let alone signed with me. It’s nice._

“Oh,” Brienne whispered, eyes suddenly wet with tears for this man she’d barely known for a month. _We should probably eat before they get cold,_ she signed. Maybe her nameday wouldn’t be so bad; making Jaime waffles didn’t seem to be blowing up in her face, at the least.

* * *

“Right,” Jaime responded, and sat down across from Brienne. They were quiet as they ate, sneaking glances at each other and pretending not to notice when their gazes met. Before long, the food was gone. “The waffles were delicious,” Jaime started hesitantly. He cleared his throat. “Did you make them?”

Brienne blushed intensely, ears glowing red. _Yes,_ she signed. _I used my father’s recipe._

Jaime grinned and responded as he piled up the dishes and deposited them in the sink. “You should tell him that your asshole neighbor enjoyed them. Do you think he’d be alright with me knowing the recipe...?”

In truth, he would never make waffles; Jaime was just looking for something to say, to get Brienne to keep signing to him. Her fingers—despite being rather large—when working in tandem with most of her body, were nimble; their movements were surprisingly delicate, especially when signing. The sight was mesmerizing, and Jaime wouldn’t have minded watching Brienne sign for the rest of his life.

Those same hands faltered as she tried to answer him, a sadness taking over her features and infusing her precious blue eyes. _He died a long time ago, when I was young. But I think he’d like it if his recipe spread._ She took a breath, and Jaime could see her chin quivering as she did so. _My father always told me that a little bit of kindness goes a long way. He said that my mother taught him that. She died before I got to know her._

Jaime’s careful elatedness disappeared at Brienne’s words. “Oh. I’m sorry for your losses,” he intoned, sitting back in his chair.

Brienne shrugged, and signed her response: _It’s been a long time. It doesn’t hurt as much now._ Jaime studied her eyes, which were angled down at the table. He wondered if she would hate him if he told her that he fully meant what he texted her.

Her face wasn’t pretty, that was true, but the depth of her eyes entranced Jaime, and her kindness wiped away any perceived flaws in her appearance. Her nose looked like it had been broken at least twice, and the thousands of freckles decorating her pale skin spoke of years in the sun. Brienne’s body was one that spoke to a life of adventure—how did she break her nose the first time, let alone the second time? Jaime wanted to know.

He wanted to be around her enough to know.

He placed his hands over Brienne’s, and she looked up, sapphire eyes wide and vulnerable. _I shouldn’t..._ “Is this okay?” Jaime whispered, so absorbed in her eyes that he almost missed her lips forming the word _yes_ , along with a nod. He took a much-needed breath, his chest loosening. He rubbed her knuckles with his thumbs before intertwining their fingers—gently, _so_ gently. “I lost my mother when I was seven, and my father when I was twenty-five. I know everyone deals with grief differently, but I get what it’s like to lose your parents. Not that my father was all that great of one, but still...”

That admission seemed to break a dam inside of Brienne; tears filled her eyes and spilled over, and Jaime reached up to wipe the first few away. Her hands left Jaime’s and he briefly wondered if he’d gone too far, but then Brienne brought them up to sign as another tear streaked down her face.

 _My mother died when I was three, along with my newborn twin sisters. My father never talked about the specifics, so I don’t know how they died, but he told me my sisters’ names were Arianne and Alysanne._ He watched Brienne sniffle and attempt to blink away her tears. _My older brother Galladon died when I was four, and when I was nineteen, my father died. It’s been rough, but I’ve made it._

Jaime nodded, fighting the urge to hold her hands again. Aerys’s pyromania inhibited more than just his ability to hear, it seemed. _I’m glad you’ve made it,_ he signed back. _I haven’t had this much contact with someone in years._ He met her gaze, giving her a soft smile. _I’m glad it was with you._


End file.
